Everyday Ignatian is a series written by guest contributors, chronicling their daily lives and experiences through the lens of Ignatian spirituality.
It was a warm fall day, the end of the growing season on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Crispy brown oak leaves were already falling on the garden beds. The Jack-Be-Little pumpkin vines, which had rambled into the wildflower patch, were dried and brown, all tiny pumpkins harvested. It was time to clean up the garden beds for winter.
In an effort to have something grow in my garden, I had covered the Jack-Be-Little plants with garden mesh after planting. The mesh, similar to the netting of grocery store lemon bags, promised to protect my precious crop from the rabbits, birds, deer and myriad of wildlife that loved to munch the precious pumpkin blossoms. And it worked! Bright yellow pumpkin blossoms emerged and morphed into tiny, perfect Jack-Be-Littles. My concern that wildlife might get caught in the mesh went unfounded throughout the growing season. But on this fall day, that worry came true — in a big way.
The snake was about 4 feet long — a common garter snake and not venomous — but 18 years of rural Chesapeake Bay life had still not calmed my fear of these slithery creatures. The snake had wriggled itself into the mesh so tightly that it looked like it had zip ties cutting off its circulation in five different places along its long body. Clearly exhausted and dehydrated, the poor snake looked directly at me — unable to move except for flicks of its tongue.
When the law scholar asked Jesus what he had to do to gain eternal life, Jesus answered, “You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your being, with all your strength, and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself.”
But because he wished to justify himself, he said to Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” Luke 10:27, 29
Oh no, this is NOT my neighbor, I thought, as I eyed the snake.
But there it was, the parable of the Good Samaritan, popping out of the Scriptures and into my mind right there in my garden. Shaking my head, as if I could erase the thought like an Etch-a-Sketch pad, I considered my options.
I could just pretend I never saw the snake and move on with my chores. I could move the snake and mesh into the woods and let nature take its course — I mean, it’s a snake, and it looks like it’s near death.
Jesus replied, “A man fell victim to robbers as he went down from Jerusalem to Jericho. They stripped and beat him and went off leaving him half-dead.
A priest happened to be going down that road, but when he saw him, he passed by on the opposite side.
Likewise, a Levite came to the place, and when he saw him, he passed by on the opposite side.” Luke 10:30-32
But Jesus was talking about people, not snakes, right? Much as I tried to convince myself of this, my Ignatian-trained brain couldn’t shake the idea that God was catching my attention with something important here. A core concept in Ignatian spirituality is that God is always with us — in our daily, ordinary lives, not just in religious rituals — and teaches us in everyday moments. If something catches our attention, St. Ignatius instructs, take note and discern where God is leading. Ignatius also teaches us to use our imaginations and put ourselves into Scripture stories — what are the sights, sounds, smells, textures and tastes? What character am I in the story?
I had always (smugly?) imagined myself as the Good Samaritan in that parable. And I passed righteous judgement on the cold-hearted priest and uncaring Levite. How could they just walk away from the injured man? Who does that?
But now, with the parable unfolding in my own garden, I was faced with an embarrassing truth. Confronted with my (disliked and feared) suffering neighbor, I wanted to pretend I didn’t see him. I wanted to move him into the woods and put him out of my mind. I was the cold-hearted priest and the uncaring Levite. Ugh.
But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. Luke10: 33-34
The extrication of the snake from the mesh took nearly an hour. I felt like a surgeon, albeit an untrained and very apprehensive one, as I carefully cut each fiber embedded in the dry, scaly skin. The snake never took its eyes off me and stayed completely still — never thrashing or striking out as I had feared. Maybe it was too dehydrated to move, but it seemed the snake knew I was helping. I felt a surprising intimacy and a comforting peace in our time together — and I imagined the snake did too.
Once free of the mesh, the snake lay still. Maybe I was too late. I picked it up with a stick and moved it into a shady, cool area. There it stayed, motionless — but for its flicking tongue — for about a half hour. Suddenly, it jolted up as if zapped with life and swished off into the woods.
To live another day as my neighbor.
